


Cinnamon and Clove

by AceQueenKing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:10:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Oghren's heart beat fast as he watched Wynne take the first sips of his beer, and then faster, and then faster still when she leaned back, downing the remainder of his beer in a few moments. Woah, he thought. This is a dame who can party.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/gifts).



The Lothering Oktoberfest was going to shit. It was official now, Oghren thought. He'd watched the yuppies and nugswindlers storming in for years now; their hops unrefined and their beers watery. Bunch of thunderhumpers wouldn't know a good ale if it were splashed in their face. It was all _Banana Cream Pie_ beers and _Taffy Apple and Elephant Ear_ lagers.

A bloody disgrace was what it was.

Oghren scowled. Business had suffered for it too; he couldn't blame Branka for packing it up and moving on to a microbrew when no one seemed to have more interest in a good, classic ale anymore.

“The business is dead,” she'd told him, turning in her apron. “Future's all in gimmicks now.”  
  
He'd rolled his eyes then. Now he was watching her hawk Branka's Soul-Sucking Sour Beers on the biggest platform of them all, while he'd been confined to the Lothering beer garden.

Smelled like piss. Which was what most of the lager was.

He watched a couple drunk chantry sisters – the Lothering faction made their own beer, which they sold for some charity or another, and evidently the sisters were not above _sampling_ their competitors – amble about the garden, their beers slipping from their glasses and splashing the floor.

Least it wasn't piss. He'd tried the Ostagar Bloodfest before this one, even knowing it was mostly frequented by the soldiers in the base there. That one had been a massacre – more piss than beer on the floor, and he'd had to dodge more than a few bottles of swill.

Not to mention the headache he'd gotten from the blighted Darkspawn. They'd had their speakers so loud he couldn't even hear himself think. He'd spent the next seven days nursing a sick hangover, and he hadn't even been drunk.

Least Lothering didn't bother with all that sideshow. Used to be one of the best shows in town – with the Lothering ribbon award a nice and classy bit of advertising. Lord knew he needed it. People weren't buying the way they used to.

He could only hope the judges still appreciated a good lager.

“Oy!” One of the chantry sisters said, her long black locks matted in sweat. She was young – probably the first time she'd been out of the chantry walls since takin' the vows. “You got any of that erm, that sweet stuff? Doubley Chocolate?”  
  
“No.” He bristled. As if he would _sully_ the good flavor of hops and barly for cheap, aromatic shit like _chocolate_ –

“Oh, well, psh.” Her companion – red haired, but equally young, tall and slim – grabbed her friends arm. “Let's go to the main stage, then. We'll get some Soul-punchers.”

The black haired nun nodded her acceptance enthusiastically, and he watched them wander away from him again.

“Bunch of nug-thumpers,” he muttered under his breath. He checked over his casks, though he needn't have worried. He'd only opened the one, and even then – he'd only poured maybe two this morning. For all the work that he'd done on his wares, he might as well have just carted up that bloody cask of pickle juice Zevran had left at his winery a few months ago – he'd have probably sold more of them.

A drunken Ferelden – a snotty nosed git, with a big honker to match – stumbled in. “Oy, dwarf,” he bellowed. Oghren winced. “Gimme some of that sourbrew, yeah?”  
  
“Not for sale here,” he said, trying to keep his dignity as much as he could muster. “We do have a wide variety of – “  
  
“You're a fuckin' liar.” The man snarled. “They said the dwarf was the one who was sell'n them Sour beers – “  
  
“Wrong dwarf.” He muttered, darkly. His hand itched for his axe, but he stayed it. If he could keep his cool through the bloody Darkspawn, he'd be damned if some annoying git would force him to take security into his own hands.

“Well fuck you,” the man snarled, before mercifully turning away. Oghren groaned, put one hand over his eyes, and resisted the urge to cry.

He sat there, eyes closed, for a while – he wasn't sure how long. He took breaths, low and deep, but it did not help. Was this what good alcohol had become? A load of tricks'n'giggles?

It was a bloody travesty.  
  
“Errr – “He peeked through his fingers when someone made a small noise, then immediately wanted to go back down to his nice underground cellar. The judges stood before him, neatly dressed and immaculately shaven, all three with clipboards. The main judge this year was some kind of god damned military hero – Ferelden, for sure, with features that matched. To her left was a bloody tall bastard, an older man with silver dreads and a severe face that all but boasted that it could bench-press eighty bloody golden nugs. To her right was a bloody churchie, with bright red hair in a short haircut and a _bloody nun's outfit_ underneath. Motherfucking hells of the seven stones, he thought.

“Good morning,” the nun said. Her mouth was upturned like she was trying to smile, but neither Oghren nor her fellow judges returned it. Nuns. Why was there a _sodding nun_ judging a beerfest?

It was a bloody travesty. A bloody thrice-damned travesty.

Still, he straightened himself up, smoothing down the front of his apron. “Sorry 'bout that. Just tryin' to hold in a bit of gas.” He laughed at his own joke; none of the judges did. He felt sweat starting to form on his brow as his heart beat a million miles a second, and he resisted the urge to wipe it upon his sleeve.  
  
“I...see.” The military hero said, writing a note down on his chart. He could all but read it. _Sense of Humor...Minus 40 points._

“What are you selling?” The tall bloke said. He sounded as if he couldn't wait to leave.

The feeling was mutual.

“A ah, class-classical beer.” He said, his fingers slipping as he reached for a couple glasses to serve his beer in. “Brewed meticulously underground in a high-quality still, serrah.”  
  
“Underground?” The giant blinked. “I wasn't aware dirt added any positive properties to brewing beer.”

“Well erm, it's not brewed in the dirt, it's in a room.”  
  
“So a basement,” He said, flatly.

“Er-Yes.” Oghren supposed it was better than dirt beer. Though given the swill they'd been selling lately, maybe dirt beer would give him a better chance of selling out.

“Look, let's just taste it, Sten,” The red-headed one said. “We can interview him after.”  
  
“Yes, Ser!” He barked, pulling three beers quickly. His hands shook, but he managed to pull good drafts all three times – just the slightest hint of head.

The three downed their drinks quickly, and Oghren watched for their reactions. The severe one remained severe, his face not even cracking a hint of a smile – not good, he thought. The redheaded nun _did smile,_ which was a bit better. The military woman – he couldn't make heads or tails of her carefully neutral expression, her mouth set in a straight line.

He sighed. Maybe ol' Branka had been right when she'd abandoned him to chase novelty brews. _The Anvil_ had been making a killing today.

“It certainly...tastes like a dwarven ale,” the hero said, her voice diplomatic. He could tell it was an act, and his heart plunged.

“Always been a fan of the classics, Ser,” he mumbled. He did not bother to meet her eyes.  
  
“Very...traditional.” There was something that sounded like approval in the giant's eyes, and he looked up, only to see the same severe face. “Despite the unorthodox brewing method.”

“So what sets it apart?” The nun asked. Bloody religious types. Always asking the hard questions.

“Erm, well, it's a classically done beer, miss.” He shrugged. “Hops, barley, some spices and herbs – “  
  
“Ooh, which ones?” The redhead grinned. “Did you put in trace amounts of elf root for a healthier brew that tastes as good as a regular beer? I do so love surprises.”  
  
“Er, no ma'am,” He said, shaking his head. Silently, he wondered if perhaps it would be best to lie, but he hadn't compromised his brew before this, and he wasn't about to do it now. “Just cinnamon, clove. Classical spices in an expertly crafted brew.”  
  
“Oh.” The redhead's mouth narrowed into a thin, pursed line. “I see.” She scribbled a few more notes into her notepad, then turned toward her fellow judges. “Well, I think that's all we need. We'll be announcing our results in about a half an hour, once we get through the last few tables.”

The hero-type leaned down, offering a hand to him. “It was nice to meet you, Mr….”  
  
“Oghren,” he said, shaking the hand. It was a bloody good hand-shake – military firm, the right amount of squeeze. He supposed someone like that had to shake a lot of hands.

“Erm, yes. Oghren.” She nodded, and the three departed.

Oghren put his head back in his hands, and sighed. He had hoped after all the _shit_ that Lothering-fest had thrown at him – and it was quickly beginning to look worse than _Ostagar_ , which was the worst nest of nughumpers he'd ever had the displeasure of being stuck in a room with – that the judges, at least, might be different.

But he might as well have made pickle and death-root beer. Bloody hell, it'd probably sell out in thirty seconds.

He felt something wet prick at the edge of his eyes, but he shut them tight, refused to let Lothering see him cry. The pieces of shit customers here deserved the horrible swill that they were tasting.

He took a deep breath – in, out. Then another. And another.

It didn't help.

He thought, for one brief moment, of letting go, of packing up and heading back to his home, where he could eat his costs and drink his beer and sit, silently, in a nice home that he was certain he would not be able to afford because the shitty _nug-thumpers_ wanted beer with stuff that had no business being in it.

“Excuse me,” a woman's voice said. He opened his eyes, then opened them wider. A woman was standing at his counter – tall, older. Handsome. Her silver hair was up in a bun, her eyes soft and kind. A pity customer, he had little doubt. She was a sophisticated looking one – wearing a classy dress, an older style with a modern necklace. “Can I get a draft?”  
  
“Two gold, please, “he murmured, a bit ashamed of the pity sale – he couldn't really turn it down, but it burned, thinking that he wasn't good enough to be worth _proper_ interest.

“A good bargain.” She said, businesslike, fishing two gold out of her wallet. “I've heard good things about your stall.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled her a pint. Either she choose to ignore it or she didn't hear him; instead, she took a delicate sip of his beer.

“Mmm,” she said, and his heart beat faster, then faster still when she leaned back, downing the remainder of his beer in a few moments. _Woah_ , he thought. _This_ was a dame who could party.

His kind of woman.

“Ah, that is good.” She said, licking her lips. “ _Very_ good.”  
  
“I'm, I'm glad you like it,” he said, stunned. She pushed another two gold toward him.

“Another please.” She said. “That's the best beer I've tasted today.”  
  
“R-really?” He stuttered. “You like it, ma'am?”  
  
She took another sip. “Of course I do. It's a good brew: clean body, good foamy head. A well-crafted beer from a rather attractive barkeeper. Even if he does seem to have a hard time taking a compliment.”

He felt his cheeks turn ruddy bloody pink, and ducked down a bit as he pulled her a third pint.

“If you like it so much, have one on the house.” It was a bit of a sacrifice – he couldn't exactly afford a lot of freebies, but she'd been the first customer he'd had who'd appreciated his work all day. And certainly one of the best _looking_ ones…

“And generous to boot.” She raised her beer toward him in salute. “A flawless bartender as well as the brew.”

“Yer gonna make me blush,” he said, though he was long past the point of that now. He could feel a heat on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

“I was beginning to give up hope of finding anything good here.” She frowned. “So many novelties, these days.”

“It's a bloody blight,” he agreed. He watched her fingers – delicate, but well maintained, with meticulous nails and classy jewelry. The kind a _real_ lady would wear.

“You're an interesting fellow, Mr...” She frowned, the lines of her face pursing lightly.

“Oghren.” He offered a hand to her, and she put one of her delicate hands in his. He held it for a moment – perhaps a moment more than way, strictly speaking, appropriate. She was warm, her skin soft and supple. “And like-wise. Yer my best customer, and by far the prettiest, Ms, erm...”

She smiled at him and he returned it, even as his cheeks burned as hot as one of Dagna's old fires. He hoped she might think it was just the liquor, but she was a handsome lady, the classy kind.

He'd always had a weakness for downtown girls. She looked like she belonged in a tower, on a high pedestal. She wasn't the kind of gal that had much interest in a lowly owner of a basement brewery, but then she'd said a few very nice things, and she kept looking at him, almost smiling.

What a lady.

“You've got quite the hold on me, Serrah,” she said softly, and he realized, with a start, that he'd been holding her hand far too long.

“I'm sorry,” he said, instantly dropping her hand. “Got a bit caught up there. You're so lovely, you see...”  
  
He caught the hint of a grin as she finished her drink, and smiled. Day might turn out alright after all.

“So, what's your na--”  
  
“ _ATTENTION: WOULD ALL CONTESTANTS PLEASE MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE STAGE!”_ some git with a microphone said. He looked at her, guilty. The odds of him winnin' were astronomical, but the prize was something that would single-handed save his brewery.

“You should go,” she said, and reached across the bar, squeezing his hand. “I'll be rooting for you.”  
  
“Thank ye,” he said, and walked forward. He turned back for only a moment, saw her talking into a cell phone to someone, somewhere, and wished that he'd had the good fortune to have pulled her as a judge instead.

When he finally moved forward, he had little difficulty finding the blighted bastards that made up his competitors in the competition. The nuns from Lothering all milled about the front of the stage, their similar, impenetrable clothing creating a wall that outlined the stage. He could see Dagna too, surrounded with a bunch of bleedin' flannel-wearers. Her eyes met his for a moment and he smiled, half-heartedly.

She did not smile back, her eyes quickly flickering toward the bloody nuns.

He grimaced, but pushed his way forward – and as far away from her as he could get. He settled behind one of the nuns, a busty, robust lady whose beauty only compared unfavorably with the woman at the bar he'd just met.

He thought of her for a moment – silver hair, a grand dame – and sighed. He wished he'd have had time to get her number.

Or at least her name.

It would be nice to be able to put a face to the name, to know that somewhere, somehow, there was at least one person left in the world who still appreciated a good brew.

He watched, a bit of hope still clinging as the hero took the stage. There was a wild cheer in the crowd, and he couldn't help but feel a bit of excitement – perhaps, perhaps despite everything, they had gone for quality. After all, the military didn't tend to cut corners, not in Ferelden.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to say thank you for coming out today,” she said, and the crowd roared. He caught a rather pleasant-looking nun throwing her wimple toward the military hero – bloody nuns, you could never trust 'em – and he strained to hear her speech.

Unfortunately, the nuns were noisy. No matter how much he tried, he could only pick out words here and there when the nuns had to take a breath – quality, creative, innovative. His heart rose at the first, but had plummeted by the third. By the time Warden Whatsername announced the winner, his heart was somewhere around his toes.

“And our – “ Another cheer, the damn nuns were _sprightly_ today – “is….” She grinned, her hand going out to the crowd. “Branka of _The Anvil!_ ”  
  
He scowled as the crowd clapped politely – the nuns' enthusiasm had died down with the loss – and stared as Branka climbed the steps.

And then he turned away, walking back toward his own stall.

He'd sat through enough shit today. He did not need to listen to Branka's victory speech on top of it. Besides, he thought, his customer might still be there. For a moment he fantasized about her – he'd always liked his women a bit older, and he wondered, vividly, what her long, silver hair would like spilled around his pillows.

But when he got there, she was gone. There was a card left on the plastic chair that had been folded up in front of him, with a softly embossed lilac on the front. He had no doubt that it was from her.

He reached for it, only to have it pulled from his fingers by the wind.

He sighed.

A shit day.

The bloody _Darkspawn_ were looking better all the time.

\- - -

For the rest of the week, he stayed home. He had to, for one thing – he'd used up the last bit of gas in the company car goin' to the bloody Lothering fest, and besides, the bloody Darkspawn were playin' in Ostagar again, and he had even less interest in some nutter throwing a freaking arrow at his head than he did when he was hawking beer at the last fest.

Least the last time he'd gone to Ostagar he made a few sales.

Sales – that was another sore subject. He avoided opening the bills, avoided his phone. The only people who called were bill collectors, and this week they were ringing non-stop.

It wasn't until the end of the week, when he'd have the weekend to recover, that he got up the nerve to actually listen to the messages.

He took a long sip of his high-end brew – a high alcohol content choice, his signature whiskey, brewed in oak for ten years – and hit play.

“ _Hello! I read about your beer in the Denerim Markets and I thought it would be just perfect for our holiday bash. Do you ship to Orlais?”_

He blinked. He certainly hadn't placed an ad, let alone in such a damn pricey mag as the Denerim Markets. They charged a bleedin' nug for their ads, even the little text ones you could barely read at the bottom of the page. Probably Branka doin' a victory lap, he thought with a sigh. One of her employees, no doubt. She'd taken almost all of their best employees, after all

“ _Hullo? This is Cherie, I am a servant to the ambassador from Antivia. We are wondering if perhaps you could provide ale for the ambassador? He is a great fan of the ferelden style.”_

Okay, one he could forgive, but two? Two kicks while he was down was just beyond the pale. He took a long sip of his whiskey, and made a note to call Branka and tell her to fuck off when he finished it..

“ _Hi, this is Wynne. I don't know if you remember me_...” The message began, and Oghren sat up straight, coughing as he chocked in surprise.

He recognized that voice. The Lothering woman, the one who had been having those...dreams about.

“ _I really enjoyed getting to know you and your product. By now I'm sure you've seen the article I wrote for you in the Denerim Market, and I hope you will enjoy it. I don't normally do this but...I'd love if we could perhaps, do dinner, soon?_ ”  
  
_Oh hell yes_ , he thought, eagerly scribbling down her digits from the voicemail.

The day was looking up. His hands were sweating as he dialed the numbers, one after the other, and his heart was pounding.

“Hello?” A voice said after the third ring.

“Is this Wynne?” He asked, though he already knew it was. The voice sounded intelligent, refined. Ladylike. “This is, erm, Oghren. From Lothering?”

“Oh yes,” she said softly. “I was hoping you'd call.”  
  
“Yeah, sorry I didn't reply sooner.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Was a bit erm, down after the whole competition – “  
  
“It was a travesty who won.” He could hear her scrunching her nose up in distaste through the phone line.

“Yeah, well, erm, I uh, I wanted to thank you for the coverage. I've been getting a few new orders, and I think uh...well...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to come over? I could show you my distillery.”  
  
“I'd love to,” she said, and, for the first time in a long time, things felt right.

Screw Branka and her Anvil, and screw the bloody nug-thumpers chasing after the next big thing. He had orders to fill, and a beautiful woman to meet.

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this in your requests and thought "Hm, writing as Oghren would be fun," and then I stuck them together while wandering through Origins and now I SHIP THESE TWO SO HARD.


End file.
